


Adrift

by prplerubberduck



Series: As Big As The Sea [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, F/M, Fem!Levi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Selkie AU, Selkie!Erwin, depression/ suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prplerubberduck/pseuds/prplerubberduck
Summary: After a good seven years of service, Levi is honourably discharged due to injury and decides to relocate to somewhere far from civilization to have time alone. Left with survivor's guilt and a deformed gait, Levi resorts to alcohol to solve the problem. However, out in the West coast wilderness she is not as unaccompanied as she thought. Or is she?
Rated Explicit for: explicit language, mentions of depression/suicide/ alcohol abuse





	

 

 

There’s the barking commands, eyes bouncing from face to face, and hands firm on warm metal. They're in a military humvee. Two sets of young eyes stare up in fear, fear that the promise she made to them will be broken.

 

She wakes up screaming and thrashing in her bed, bolting upright. A cold film of sweat clings onto her skin and tears drip from her chin. She scrubs her face, wiping away the wetness that comes too easily these days. Instinctively, she reaches right to turn on the lamp by her bed in attempt to read the face of the analog clock. She gives it a quick glance, but instead of processing the face, her eyes bypass it and look at the picture frame that stands beside. 

 

Behind the glass plane is an individual in military greens with a matching beret sitting on their short charcoal hair. The eyes are a smokey grey, shining bright with determination. It's the only hint of age that is present. The ones standing around wear matching uniforms and wide grins, strong and proud. That was the day they all were put into the same special operations squad, when they had no clue to what was about to come in the few weeks.

 

The sound of tears slowly drip onto the glass, as the clock’s arm tick in the background, keeping a steady rhythm compared to her erratic heart. After a beat or two,desperate apologies tumble from her mouth, seeking forgiveness from the smiling ones behind the glass. It’s her fault. Entirely her fault that she is alive and that they are not. The reruns of their deaths that played in her dreams is a partial payment to her fortune to be alive.

 

People said that lady luck smiled at her that day, considering all that happened. She thinks that the cow is more of a debt collector and con artist who wears a cheshire grin. A bitch who charges interest and some change.

 

Soon disappointment and self loathing set in. Disappointment that she couldn't join them. Self loathing at what she has now turned into; a cripple that earns pity glances from strangers whenever she's in the mainland to buy supplies with her cane, just because she is no longer a natural bipedal, just because of her deformed gait. In a seething rage the picture frame was thrown to the far wall in the room, earning a thump which was followed by a shatter.

 

She fumbles at the bedside table’s drawer, seeking for solace. Fingers brush against a cold glass bottle, one that she knows its contents very well. Just a bit of Johnnie's black label should get her through the night, right?  _ Just a bit to take off the edge of the dream _ , and maybe enough to make her forget. Just for the night. Or maybe just enough to have her join them, though a bit late.

 

She twists off the cap of the bottle and downs it like a parched man in the sahara. There is no more gut wrenching gag reactions anymore, just a smile to welcome the flames that sear through her throat, that leave warm embers sitting in her stomach and blushed cheeks. It's a familiarity. A routine now.

 

It’s 3am, mind walking in a wobbly line between sleep and consciousness, when she re-realizes that she’s lonely, living in the middle of fuck, clutching a now empty bottle of whiskey. 

 

Pathetic. She’s a mess, but she cares more about her booze, which is gone too soon. Just like her friends, no, family. She yearns for more numbness, but can’t be assed to get out from under the comforter to find another bottle. 

 

A shaky laugh at first stumbles out of her mouth. She doesn’t know why she’s laughing. Hands slacken, she lets the empty bottle fall out of her grip and onto the floor. She doesn’t care about that, she’s too busy biting her fingers in a feeble attempt to stifle her hysterics. She laughs with the people who laugh at her, at her stupid decision.

 

When sleep comes she can barely keep her eyelids open. As she slowly closes her eyes, she hopes that they won't ever open again. She wonders, why is she still holding on.

 

\----

 

She is first greeted with a sharp shooting pain below her left knee. It turns into a dull immobilizing throb. There is a storm out- the thundering of waves crashing, wind howls,and the rhythmic patter of rain hitting the window. Her head pulses a bit, but nothing that she isn’t used to. 

 

The arms point at eight and twelve.

 

There has been not a day since she first woken up in that hospital bed where she has slept soundly. It feels like her body is punishing herself, stuck in that past life she once lived. A life where she had two legs, where her whole team was still smiling, still vibrant with life.

 

It's a small penance. To wake every living day at that same time. To wake and be living in atonement, their deaths heavy on her shoulders. At least they finished their mission. At least she managed to bring their corpses home, it’s the littlest thing she could do. 

 

The public sees her as a war hero, the lone survivor of the pack, someone who somehow managed to carry all of their bodies back with a leg and chest full of shrapnel. The military sees her as someone who completed their usefulness; they can’t put a cripple back onto the field, even though she did so much. Her only living friend sees her as lonely, tired, and broken.

 

Pushing those thoughts out of her head, she straps on the prosthetic and hobbles towards the bathroom, avoiding the broken glass from the night. she only has one good foot left and she doesn't want to fuck that one up. Her head spins as she moves, nausea teasing her at the back of her throat. It’s only her iron will keeping her from slumping onto the floor in pain and letting the acid burn her mouth.

 

Once she reaches the bathroom, she holds onto the sink as a lifeline, knuckles white and teeth gritting. The bitch of a stump sends shocks up her spine. She spends a few moments coaching her breathing,only to make the mistake of looking into the mirror.

 

What she sees is a pale sunken face with a flushed nose and a red spider web like pattern on the cheeks. Staring back are bloodshot eyes. Deep purple eye bags lay below those greys, making those eyes look lifeless. 

 

She’s fixated on the image before her. It’s her, but she doesn’t want to believe it. She finishes up in the bathroom while trying to hide from her reflection. For a moment the thought of smashing the mirror crosses her mind, but that would risk being sent back into the hospital, and into the psychiatric ward. 

 

She doesn’t need that. she needs to be normal, whatever normal is.

 

Like the good soldier she is, she eats. She eats breakfast even though there is no feeling to, no appetite whatsoever. The mechanic movements of opening her mouth, closing, and chewing calms her restless mind. 

 

There’s a loud beeping that jostles her out of the dull haze. She turns her head slowly, eyes searching for the source, only to see the phone sitting in its charging dock shine a pulsing bright blue, signalling that there's somebody out there awake at this time like her, somebody who wants to talk to her at this hour. 

 

There’s only one person who calls her.

 

With a grumble she reaches for the phone, and answers, cutting to the chase because she can't be assed for any pleasantries at the hour.

 

“What?” A sharp bark, but no bite behind.

 

“Good morning to you, grumpy pants! How’s the leg? Does it still give you grief when it rains?” The voice on the other side was too happy, too full of life.

 

“Yes it does. Now what the fuck do you want, Hanji? Don't you have to get ready for work or some shit?”

 

“Oh! I'm just letting you know that I won't be popping by later due to the storm, but I'll call you after work!” She sang, being too enthusiastic at such an hour.

 

She wonders how she can still look at life with bright eyes, let alone remain contact.

 

“Fine, talk to you later,” a clipped reply from her.

 

Before she could hang up on her, she hears a muffled wait from the other side.

 

“I know I shouldn't be reminding you, but, don't go out in this weather, not that you’d want to, but like. Oh, you get the point,” she rambled without breath. “So, what are you planning to do today, besides being cooped up at home?” Her voice in a much lighter tone than before, changing the subject as fast as possible.

 

“I don't know, knit myself a blanket,” she offered up dryly while fidgeting with her napkin. 

 

“A new hobby! Or more like revisiting an old skill, but something good nonetheless!” 

 

A frown, she didn't like the reminder. “Yes,there was quite a bit of enthusiasm. I'll obviously knit with sticks that I'll find in my vast backyard. Probably use the grass as yarn as well.”

 

“Hey! You were pretty crafty back in highschool!”

 

“I swear to God Hanji, we promised to not talk about the dark ages, plus it has been like what, a lifetime ago since I did shit like that.”

 

“Any skill is a valuable skill, Levi! And I honestly wish you did something besides cleaning your guns and sharpening your knives. Or cleaning your god damn house, I swear, it's cleaner than my lab.”

 

“Yea, considering you leave your cups of tea around to grow its own ecosystem,” she muttered into the phone as she began clearing up her breakfast. There was that familiar ease, the effortless banter between two life long friends. she gritted her teeth,  _ aren’t you supposed to loathe me? _

 

“How about you take up cooking, or maybe go back to sewing! You were always meticulous and detail oriented!”

 

“I told you already, I'm done with that shit,” was all she could give. She didn't want to be reminded of all that, she packed away all those memories into the farthest corner of her head.

 

“Or you can always do things like model airplanes, or ceramics! Maybe painting too! Once the weather lightens up the view you have is amazing,” She drawled on. “Or maybe I could get you a game console!”

 

“Please, don't, I quite enjoy my meager hermit life,” she dully noted. She liked the desolation.

 

“But you were pretty good at that stuff, remember who always set the highscores at the arcades?” She barked with laughter. “I swear Levi, you live the life of a Buddhist monk, boring!”

 

“Yea, I'll find something to do sooner or later. I'll talk to you later. Maybe.” She was leaning against the sink, phone still clutched in her hand. She needed to stop talking. To stop thinking of the other life She once had. Before all this happened.

 

“Oh, okay. Shit, I should also be heading out for work as well. I'll call you later! Take care, buddy.” The last delivered with an uncharacteristic somberness.

 

With that their conversation ended, and she set to wash the little dishes she dirtied and regretfully allowed her mind to wander. 

 

She imagined herself prior to the present, when she was still wide eyed and green to the world. To the time before she was plagued with the face of death. It was a simple life then.

 

However, she wouldn't have been able to give Hanji the opportunity to meet the light of her life. Nor would she be the one to take it away.

 

With the flurry of what ifs brewing in her mind, paired with the guilt of her actions, she hastily finished off the chore and dressed to face the wretched weather out.  _ Fuck Hanji and her warning to stay inside _ , she needed to move around and clear her mind, and being cooped up never bode well with her in this state. A little bit of rain didn’t hurt no one.

 

After the swift exit of her house, she cautiously made her way down the worn path to the shore by the beach and opted to take a seat on a large log of driftwood to rest, massaging the tender leg while watching the sea. She needed to busy herself, to keep her mind from wandering and causing strife, and so begun to brainstorm tasks to do.   _ I could always go and check her traps for any game caught. Or wander in the forest.  _

 

Then a particularly loud crash from the waves pulled her out of her reverie, reminding her that her main mode of transportation may be compromised due to the storm.  _ Fuck,  _ a quick cuss slips out, and she heads off to the dock at the end of the shore, rushing out and hoping that her row boat is still tied to the dock. As she approaches, she gives off a sigh of relief, spying the boat bobbing by the dock and the taut rope connecting it. She should probably move the boat further inland, away from the shore in case of the tide rising up more than it already is.

 

Laying her cane down on the dock, she gets onto her belly and begins to reel her boat in, looping the excess rope onto the cleat. Once the wooden boat was within reach she took hold onto the boat and carefully unwound the rope and began to crawl down the dock towards the shore. With one hand holding onto the boat and the rope looped around her other arm, it reminded her of her military camp days, where in training the had her crawling through mud with a rifle in one hand and her supply pack on her back.

 

A bittersweet memory that was.

 

It was arduous; her left leg in pain, prosthetic still being uncooperative and a bitch to maneuver, a hassle to maintain grip due to the wet wood of the dock, but she somehow managed to reach land, the fine pebbles and rocks hitting the bottom of the boat being a wonderful sound to her ears. After kneeling and taking a firm hold on a nearby cleat, she gave the boat one last final push, ensuring that the boat was packed in place. With that she sat back and took a breath to rest and a moment to massage the protesting leg. 

 

_ It would've been easier _ . Quickly she dropped the thought, it was a dangerous one, and she needed to focus if she wanted to get the boat to a safe place in time. Getting back onto all fours, she made her way back to the rope knotted cleat, untied and began to wind the rope up as she made her trip back to the boat.

 

As soon as she got close enough to the boat, she threw the coiled rope in and held onto the sides of the boat for support as she got onto her feet. She could feel the crashes of the waves as they hit the stern of her boat, the force of the strikes jostling the boat and herself. When the wave retreated for a moment she took the opportunity to get to the back of the boat, to push it up and away from the water as much as she could, and hastily hobbling back to the bow to dodge the water licking her heels. Eventually she managed to get the boat off the pebbled shore and onto grass, making the work a lot easier due to the grass being slick. She managed to move the boat to the cliff in between her house and the shore, deeming that it was a good enough distance away, and flipped the boat over to prevent any water collecting into it.

 

Sitting on the wet grass and habitually massaging her damned leg, she finally realized how such a simple sounding task to relocate her boat to a safer place took longer and more effort than expected. Her clothes were soaked and she felt the biting cold.  _ I needed to get inside before hypothermia sets in _ .

 

_ Or maybe I don't.  _

 

_ Maybe- no, _ she thought. _ Yes, a nice fire and warm clothes sounds like a good idea. Maybe even a nice hot bath too. _ She tried to rationale to herself. It was getting worse out, banshee screams and the waves hitting harder into the rocks below in the cove. She moved to grab her cane to get up and return to her house, until her hand met wet grass. She had left it on the dock.

 

A swear makes it past her lips as she steadies herself on the upturned boat to make the slow and gruel journey down to the dock to retrieve the stupid cane. Limping down the path, she gingerly made her way through the dock. By then the waves have rose up high enough to splash over the wood. She was glad that she moved the boat when she did. Scanning the dock, she realized that her cane was not where she placed it, but in fact, a few metres away, half floating, half bobbing in the ocean.  _ Fuck me. I  should’ve put the cane in the boat earlier. _

 

The cane itself was an arms length away from the edge of the dock, but the question was, would she take the chance of reaching out to retrieve the damn thing, or would she leave it and stagger all the way back up empty handed and have to deal with living without it for a period of time?

 

Biting her lip, she took the gamble,  _ it’s not even that far, plus the waves push it closer. _ She forced her knees onto the dock and gripped onto the wooden dock with her cold hands. She reached forward, fingers making contact with the cane, and then she realized that it was a  _ terrible  _ idea.

As the wave brought the cane closer, it actually carried the cane  _ over _ the dock, the wave being not a couple centimetres higher than the dock, but a good half metre, came crashing not just head on into the veteran, but flanking her sides as well. And as the wave pulled out, it took her along, as if a watery hand encompassed her and plucked off the dock.

 

Eyes shut in response to the splash of cold water in her face, she soon found herself swept off and being pulled further into the ocean, suspended beneath the waves. Her eyes are now open, but she can only see the inky dark. One hand still clutched onto the cursed cane, the other clenched into a fist in reaction to the cold. Her legs kicked out in the cold, body wriggling, arms trying to paddle in attempts to bring her up. She didn’t take a breath prior. Bubbles float up in mockery to her.

 

_ This is it, I go down by accidental drowning instead of a fucking roadside bomb. And I didn't even plan this.  _ She sinks further into the deep. Her flailing in attempts to break the surface of the water stops. She’s frozen to the bone.  _ I deserve this. _

 

She can barely keep her eyes open, head dizzy, brain deprived of oxygen. When her eyes shut, she gives up, her mouth opens and the taste of salt meet her tongue, and the last few bubbles escape. Everything fades to darkness as white orbs float up.

 

\--------

Softness and warmth touch her cheeks, rousing her out of sleep and welcoming her into consciousness. She finds herself huddled in towels and blankets, and her very own bed comforter cocooning her, all a mere metre away from her fireplace where a  log is crackling with a comforting fire. It strikes her as odd, considering she has a rule where her bedroom blankets are to be only in the bedroom, not to mention how she has no recollection as to how she gotten in front of the fire. The last thing she can recall is the a sinking sensation and the frigid cold.

 

Eyes widen in bewilderment.  _ The last thing I was doing was drowning in the ocean. _ Promptly she began to pat herself down within the heap of blankets and towels that she was under. Her hands slowed to a halt as she came to the conclusion; she was stark naked beneath everything, and that her prosthetic was not strapped on. 

Bile rose up to the back of her throat, she knew she was to be good as dead at the moment, after drowning in the goddamn ocean, but to be in her  _ own house _ , naked and wrapped up in blankets in front of a toasty warm fire? This must be some sick joke to herself, to have a dream of drowning to death after falling into the ocean from trying to retrieve her cane. She must have been drinking to come up with such a convoluted and fucked up dream.

 

Except there were no evidence of drinking around her, and that the clothes she was wearing  _ earlier  _ are hanging on her dining chairs beside her, all sopping wet. That her cane and prosthetic are laying on her other side, on top of a towel, both dry. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting around for half a year now and I'm finally shelling it out. First ever fic, yo holla.  
> Unbeta'd, sorry.


End file.
